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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29418111">Daisies, Forget-Me-Nots and Violets (Do You Speak My Language)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmicpunishment/pseuds/karmicpunishment'>karmicpunishment</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Flower Language, Fluff, Gen, I Will make Niki and Jack think about their choices, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mostly Canon Compliant, Mourning, No Beta We Die like L'manburg (3x), Parent Sam | Awesamdude, Platonic Flower Giving, Self-Esteem Issues, Tommy can sew, Tommy is a good kid and i love him, Tommy-centric, TommyInnit-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Valentine's Day, Wilbur Soot Is Dead, awesamdad, gift giving as a love language, slight angst</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:08:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,238</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29418111</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmicpunishment/pseuds/karmicpunishment</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>5 bouquets Tommy sends on Valentine's Day, +1 that is left but never received </p>
<p>or</p>
<p>I spent 2 days researching flower langauge to make a soft tommy fic</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cara | CaptainPuffy &amp; TommyInnit, Dream SMP Ensemble &amp; TommyInnit, Jack Manifold &amp; Niki | Nihachu, Jack Manifold &amp; TommyInnit, Niki | Nihachu &amp; TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo &amp; Technoblade &amp; Philza (mentioned), Ranboo &amp; TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Tommyinnit&amp; Tubbo, Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>599</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>TWB Valentine's Event [2021]</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Daisies, Forget-Me-Nots and Violets (Do You Speak My Language)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkstainedmemories/gifts">inkstainedmemories</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this is a gift for ana!! i hope you enjoy it &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Tommy had set out early, the sun still sleeping in its starless sheets in the sky above, a bundle in his arms and purpose in every step. He made some quick stops first. Three strands of Heather on Vikkstar's stoop (</span>
  <em>
    <span>good luck and admiration). </span>
  </em>
  <span>A single Protea (</span>
  <em>
    <span>change and transformation) </span>
  </em>
  <span>entwined with a purple Aster (</span>
  <em>
    <span>wisdom and royalty)</span>
  </em>
  <span> on the doorstep of Eret’s castle. He’d brought some Nepeta (or more commonly known as catnip) for HBomb but he wasn’t sure where he lived anymore. He hoped he could trust Eret to get it to him.</span>
  <span> He hoped he could trust Eret.</span>
  <span> A single strand of Aconite he’d tossed on Schlatt's grave. A trio of flowers, Daffodils (</span>
  <em>
    <span>new beginnings</span>
  </em>
  <span>), Circus Rose (</span>
  <em>
    <span>admiration and passion), </span>
  </em>
  <span>and an Edelweiss (</span>
  <em>
    <span>devotion),</span>
  </em>
  <span> all three intertwined with a bloom of Myrtle (</span>
  <em>
    <span>good luck and love in marriage</span>
  </em>
  <span>)  for Quackity, Sapnap and Karl. A bundle of roses, ivory (</span>
  <em>
    <span>charm and thoughtfulness</span>
  </em>
  <span>) and yellow (</span>
  <em>
    <span>joy</span>
  </em>
  <span>) and pink (</span>
  <em>
    <span>sweetness</span>
  </em>
  <span>) for Hannah, for as little time as he’d known her she’d always been kind, and well, no one deserves a gift-less Valentines day. A collection of Glory of the Snow’s for Connor (</span>
  <em>
    <span>generosity and forgiveness during hard times</span>
  </em>
  <span>) and a mixture of purple and yellow Irises (</span>
  <em>
    <span>wisdom and passion</span>
  </em>
  <span>) for Foolish. He’d thought about gathering some mushrooms for George and something for Callahan but he hadn't seen either of them in ages. He didn’t like to think of George much anyway. He’d dropped a bunch of Snapdragons (</span>
  <em>
    <span>strength </span>
  </em>
  <strike>
    <em>
      <span>and deception</span>
    </em>
  </strike>
  <em>
    <span>)</span>
  </em>
  <span> off for Fundy as his first stop. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The sun was crawling its way up the sky as Tommy finished his quick drop offs, and went back to his home to pick up the rest. He muttered a swear (or five) and hurried his pace. He wanted to finish this before anyone was awake. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d deal with the confrontation if someone saw him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Most would probably just accuse him of stealing the flowers or trying to destroy something anyway. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Whatever, he didn’t care about that. What was important was getting these gifts to the right people in time. He was trying to be better, trying to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>good. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Giving gifts, showing appreciation, those were good things, right? He hoped they were. He wondered how many gifts he’d have to give for it to be enough. It didn’t matter how many, he’d give them anyway. To those who helped him, who stood with him, who loved him. There weren’t many of them, not anymore, so he had to make sure to appreciate them, make sure they wouldn’t leave. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He couldn’t be alone, not again.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---------------------</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>1</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Puffy woke up to sunshine in her eyes.</span>
  <em>
    <span> I should really make sure to close my curtains before bed, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she thought,</span>
  <em>
    <span> oh well, at least it makes for a good alarm. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Getting dressed and gently combing her wild hair, Puffy made an effort to wipe the sleep from her eyes and the fatigue from her bones. She had a lot to do today (</span>
  <em>
    <span>She always had a lot to do these days it seemed</span>
  </em>
  <span>), and she had to be ready. Her eyes caught sight of the calendar on her wall, and on the date, marked with a red heart. Oh. Valentine’s day.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> Her stomach sank and churned uncomfortably, like the sea she so adored. Two weeks ago she was so excited for Valentine’s day, to spend the day with her girlfriend, with </span>
  <em>
    <span>Niki,</span>
  </em>
  <span> away from all the chaos and strife of the main server. To just talk and laugh and exchange gifts, enjoying each other's company. That was two weeks ago. Now, instead of love, Puffy burned in a different way at the thought of Niki. Anger, disgust and sadness flooded her veins at the thought. Niki, kind Niki, bright Niki, gentle Niki, trying to murder a child. Trying to pin the blame of months of war and bloodshed on a traumatized teen. Trying to push the blame off herself and others (so many others) onto a boy who just wanted to live. Puffy was no stranger to desperation, to anger, to so-called insanity (really the insane are just sick and hurt and in need of help). She was intimately familiar with pain and grief and its effects. But this? Attempting to murder a child? That was something she could not forgive. Not when Niki didn’t want help. Not when Niki didn’t want to change. Not when Niki had taken everything she believed in and burned it to the ground.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Puffy shook her head, trying to clear the image of burning trees and pink hair and cold eyes out of her mind. She busied herself with the rest of her prep for the day, filling her inventory and opening her door, only to see a myriad of colors on her stoop. Oh. A bouquet was laid gently on her front steps, a note on the ribbon tying it together. The colors were vibrant and the flowers were beautiful, if a bit mismatched, but there was a certain charm to them. She grabbed them and went back inside, and made quick work of putting them in a vase of water, before unfurling the note. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Captain Puffy, </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY! I hope you enjoyed the flowers. Of course you enjoyed the flowers, I gave them to you and who doesn’t enjoy a gift from a Big Man like me? Anyway I gave these to you because you’ve helped me a lot recently and I wanted to thank you for that. You don’t treat me like a ticking time bomb, or a plague ready to be set off. You treat me like a person. Thank you. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>P.S. I also got you flowers cause you’re a women and all women deserve flowers on Valentine’s Day especially from a Big Man </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>P.P.S. This is from Tommy Innit if you couldn’t tell </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Puffy smiled and chuckled at the note. There were places clearly scribbled out and places obviously rewritten a few times but she didn’t care. She could practically taste the anxiety in the letter, the bravado he so liked to wear oozing out of his words. But what she saw the most was the sincerity. Tommy may be loud and brash and, well, annoying but he was a good kid. She would help him a thousand times over if it meant that kid could smile freely. And looking at those flowers, bright and lively and lovely, brought a smile to her own face, so hey, maybe these things pay back in kind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Bluebell- humility</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>White carnation-Innocence, pure love, women’s good luck gift</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Crocus- youthful gladness</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Hydrangea- Gratitude for being understood</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Lily- Chinese emblem for mother</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---------------------</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>2</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sam was headed to the Innit Hotel bright and early in an attempt to get in some good work before his shift at the prison later. He wanted to get this project done soon, though not too soon. He could see how happy Tommy was working on this project, despite his initial moaning and groaning at the prospect of work. His smile wasn’t the fake grin he often gave, but a smaller smile worth a thousand more watts, in Sam’s humble opinion. He could only imagine the smile on his face when he saw the finished project. The best part about this project, however, was that Sam could keep an eye on Tommy. Not in the way some people on this server would think, like an owner looking after a naughty dog, but in fact, to keep Tommy safe. Sure, Tommy was terrifyingly competent in many things, fighting included, but he was still a kid and he should be protected. And as long as this project was happening (and maybe long after too) Tommy was under </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>protection. From Dream. From Jack. From the rest of the Badlands and that g-dforsaken Egg. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Something bright drew his attention, sitting right under the ‘Under Construction’ sign for the hotel. Curiosity peaked, he hurried his pace, hard hat jostled on his head with his quickened steps. When he approached he saw a bouquet of flowers laid underneath the sign, not tossed, but clearly placed with care. Who would get him flowers? He knew it was Valentine’s day but he didn’t think anyone would care enough to give him anything. Not with Dream his prisoner and the Badlands prisoner to another type of warden. Then he spotted the wrapping on the bottom of the bouquet. Light cream collared with green leaf designs and a familiar logo, reminiscent of a certain characters button up shirt. Laughter bubbled in his chest at the sight and he knew who these were from. Tommy. Warmth flooded his chest at the thought. He was a good kid. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe he’d work extra hard today on the Hotel, put some special features in it. A little Valentine’s gift of his own. The kid deserved a reason to smile. He was good at giving out reasons to others for smiles, it was the least he could do to give him one in return. Sam gently set down the flowers out of reach of the Prime Path and the construction sight, far away from any trampling feet or falling debris. He was keeping these flowers safe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Aster- patience</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Angelica- Inspiration</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Columbine, purple- Resolution</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Edelweiss- Courage</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Blue Hyacinth- Constancy</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Oak- Strength</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Sage- Wisdom</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---------------------</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>3</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tubbo truthfully, had not gone to bed yet. He’d spent his evening pouring over plans and blueprints and books, time bleeding together like runny ink on the pages in his hand and before he knew it, it was well into the morning. The sun didn’t reach him here, in his hidden lab. He couldn’t risk any disturbances here, not even the shining sun. Good for him, however, he had a built in alarm clock. His stomach growled, a clear message that he’d been working too long. He blinked his bleary eyes and turned his eyes to the clock he’d placed on the wall. It was nearing mid-morning, closer to noon than dawn. Oops. He’d only meant to work for a few hours but the pull of his work and the next discovery itching at his fingertips was too enthralling to pass up. He groaned as he sat up at his desk, back creaking and feet long gone asleep sprang to life, tingling and uncomfortable. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He was far too young to have an achy back</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he mused, </span>
  <em>
    <span>but that's what he gets for picking jobs centered around sitting at a desk</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <strike>
    <em>
      <span>Well he didn’t choose to be president.</span>
    </em>
  </strike>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He yawned and stretched, body cracking in all the right ways as the fatigue that had been chased away by his absorption in his work settled in his bones. He noted, almost unconsciously that today was Valentine’s Day. He was glad he’d sent his gifts out earlier in the week, letters mailed and packages delivered. He couldn’t imagine going out right now and passing out Valentines. He’d probably fall asleep on his way, if he tried. He wonders if he got any Valentines, curiosity warring against the sleepy weight in his mind. He had gotten a card from Jack yesterday (a nuke shaped card and some new gloves) and had been given a pig spawner by Ranboo, with his freaky silk touch hands. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He noted in the back of his mind to figure out how that worked later. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He hadn’t seen Niki in a few days, last he’d seen she’d been staying with Jack but hadn’t seemed to be out whenever he was. He couldn’t really blame her, it was getting colder. Even his thick coat and new gloves weren’t quite enough to keep out the chill. Almost like the thought had reminded the universe of its job, an icy wind blew scattering wisps of snow across the ground and sending shivers racking up and down Tubbo's body. He hurried the rest of his way home, faltering at the sight of something bright against the pure white landscape. He edges closer, caution nipping at the curiosity in his veins until the shape grew clear. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Flowers. Someone had left him flowers, and based on the chaotic array he had a feeling he knew who it was. Stepping closer, he knelt down to pick up the flowers before something beside them caught his eye. A small knitted bee, all dressed up in a winter coat matching the one Tubbo himself wore, the initials TnT embroidered on its itty bitty pocket. Despite the chill, despite the wind, and the falling snow, Tubbo felt undoubtedly warm. A smile stretched across his face as he pocketed the bee with care, and bent down again to pick up the flowers. There was no note, no letter, but Tubbo knew exactly who these were from. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He remembered Wilbur giving Tommy a book on knitting years ago, an attempt for some outlet for his endless energy. No one had expected him to take to it as much as he did. For months on end, he would knit them hats (like the one Wilbur never took off, not even in death), cloaks (like the one Niki now wore, borrowed from the dead) and eventually little toys, like the bee in his hand. Then war came and came and came, and there was no more time for knitting. No time to knit when reaching for independence, for reaching for hope, for a home, for anything at all. He wondered when the last time Tommy had knit before this. </span>
  <em>
    <span><strike>Not in exile, not for himself, he stayed in ripped and torn clothes for weeks. He didn’t have to. He must have thought he deserved it.</strike> </span>
  </em>
  <span>The warmth grew brighter at the realization that he knit again for </span>
  <em>
    <span>him. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He couldn’t wait to see Tommy again. He’d give him the biggest hug he could, try to share the warmth he’d been given. Entering his house, he places the flowers in a jug of water, the chaotic array looking beautiful to him in his living room. And as he settled into bed, the mid-morning sun burning sweetly in the sky, he never let go of the little knit bee in his hand.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Arborvitae- unchanging friendship</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Pink Carnation- “I’ll never forget you”</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Chamomile- patience in adversity</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Coriander- Hidden Worth/Merit</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Daisy- innocence/hope</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Geranium- True Friendship</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Goldenrod- Encouragement and Good fortune</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Pink rose- happiness</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Rue- Grace, Clear Vision</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Spearmint- Warmth of sentiment</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Tulip yellow- sunshine in your smile</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Violet- Loyalty, devotion</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---------------------</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>4</span>
</p>
<p><span>Jack and Niki sat around a table together, papers laid out in front of them. Their last plan had failed, and they couldn’t let it fail again. The house was cold, the fire long gone out, but neither of them cared. They’d long grown used to the cold, and held no fondness for flames.</span> <strike><em><span>Not since Hell. Not since the Tree. </span></em></strike></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The sun was creeping in the windows, peeking in between the crystals of snow as they fell, swirling in the harsh wind outside. A slight thump outside their door drew their attention. Jack ran to the window for a peak, as Niki pulled out a sword and stood by the door. Hopefully it was just Tubbo, coming for a morning greeting. Even so they couldn’t risk anyone coming in and seeing their plans. They wouldn’t understand. They wouldn’t understand that it was necessary. Especially not Tubbo. So for everyone's sake, they hoped it was an animal at the door, a fox drawn in by the lights or an eager bunny looking for food. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack looked out the window, glasses calming the glare of the sun on the snow. He squinted, trying to spot the culprit. There! A familiar blond head, form dressed in a thick coat and arms full of something he couldn’t make out, sprinting away from their house. Jack growled low in his chest. Of course it was Tommy. As he backed away from the window, and called out to Niki with the information, he wondered what havoc he was wreaking this time. And who would take the fall for it. It was never him. Never. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They’d fix that soon enough. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Niki sheathed her sword, caution still clinging to her bones as she edged open the door. What mischief had Tommy left this time? What mess that they would have to clean up for him? Probably some new war or grudge. Maybe something he’d stolen that he wanted to return, half broken. Maybe it was news of some new thing he’d destroyed. Maybe it was</span>
  <span>—</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Flowers?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Or succulents she guessed would be more accurate. </span>
  <em>
    <span>She should know, happier days spent in a flower shop, hand in hand with someone she had loved. Another person who’d left her. She tore away from the memories and back to the problem at hand.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What the fuck are those?” Jack exclaimed, toeing at one of the succulents with a wary eye. Niki knelt down to take a better look, picking up the one closest to her with gentle hands, ignoring Jack's shouts of caution behind her. It was an adorable arrangement, pinks and greens and whites and reds sitting together in a delicate white pot. Dark dirt stained her fingertips as she tilted it, careful not to spill any dirt. There on the side, was her name engraved in a light silvery script. She put it down and clocked the second plant, sitting on the ground next to her feet. This one was in a dark rock, rough edge smoothed down by careful hands. It was made of vibrant cacti, spiky but beautiful, Jack's name painted on the side in blue. There was a note on the ground between the two arrangements, as white as the snow around them, the paper stained only by a few simple words. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Niki and Jack, </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Happy Valentine’s day! I thought you might enjoy these. Don’t worry, they’re strong enough to survive in the cold. They reminded me of you two in that way. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I just wanted to give you guys something to thank you for sticking by me. I’m a lot, and I’m annoying and loud </span>
  </em>
  <strike>
    <em>
      <span>and terrible and just awful. </span>
    </em>
  </strike>
  <em>
    <span>A lot of people have left me. But you two stuck around. You helped me fight Dream. So, thanks.  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Signed, </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Big Man Tommy</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She grasped the letter in her hands, crumpling the paper in her fist. Her chest tightened at the words inked there, but she turned to focus on answering Jack instead.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re a Valentine’s day gift from Tommy. Succulent arrangements. They’ll last well around here.” She knew about them, could draw upon the meaning of the arrangements, of the colors, from the memory of a small, lovely, shop she’d once adored. She didn’t. She looked at Jack. His eyes were covered by the dark lenses of his glasses, but she would guess he was blinking in surprise if his open mouth was any indication. She picked up her pot and turned to go inside, Jack mimicking her a few steps behind. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The door slammed behind them, snow cascading from their roof onto the space they’d just cleared at the force. Neither of them cared. Niki passed the note to Jack for him to read, the words still legible on the crumpled paper. The plants were left on the table, </span>
  <em>
    <span>on top of their plans to murder the one who sent them. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Something dark and heavy swirled in Niki’s gut, her chest uncomfortably tight. Her mind kept wandering to the note, to the words he wrote and the ones he’d tried to etch out. Her eyes kept drifting to the pot engraved with her name. Lovely and strong and lasting. Is that how he saw her? Is that what she was? She didn’t feel lovely. She was tired of being strong. She didn’t understand how anything could last here. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jack stared at the paper. The words called his name, called his thoughts to bare and his truth to lay on the pyre. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy was selfish. Tommy was rude. Tommy didn’t care about anyone else. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He knew this.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Why was the world so desperate to prove him wrong? Why did these words exist, showing him a truth he didn’t want to see. Showing him an image of a boy, a bright boy, who’d invited him to his country, into his world. Who’d accepted him and fought with him and helped him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A boy he was trying to murder. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His plant seemed to mock him, sharp rock smoothed, the green plants beautiful and painful. They didn’t remind him of himself. More the world they grew in. Sharp but bright, small but resilient. </span>
  <em>
    <span>They reminded him of Tommy.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Niki and Jack sat in their cold house, quiet and contemplative. Two plants sat on the table, on top of papers they’d been pouring over before. They didn’t want to look at them anymore. The simmering flame in their stomachs, the ones fed on anger and revenge  were dwindling low. Embers flickering out as emotions swirled in their minds. For the first time in months, they felt the chill of the cold house settle in their bones. They had a lot to think about. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Echeveria Clear Dish Succulents:</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Hardy and forgiving, symbolizes gracious adaptability and striking beauty.</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Feather Rock Garden:</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Thrives in harsh conditions, symbolizes endurance as it is a plant that can stand up to the test of time and the elements</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---------------------</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>5</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ranboo woke up somewhere he did not fall asleep. For anyone else this would be terrifying or at the very least, unique. For Ranboo however, this was becoming an increasingly annoying habit. He’d woken up laid in a snowbank, burned by melting snowflakes far too many times to count. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The least the world could do, </span>
  </em>
  <span>a maudlin thought crossed his mind, </span>
  <em>
    <span>is wake him up somewhere interesting next time. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He was getting sick of the white snow. Of the snowflakes that burned one side and blended in with the other. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He sat up, head spinning slightly as his awareness grew.  There was snow, freshly fallen, piled up around his body, soaking into his clothes and irritating the skin. A pickaxe sat at his side, so worn pieces crumbled a bit as he jostled it and stored it in his inventory. He stood up and took stock of himself. His memory book </span>
  <strike>
    <em>
      <span>Don’t trust it  </span>
    </em>
  </strike>
  <span>was by his side as usual. Nothing new was scrawled on the pages, no clue of his missing time etched in ink. He couldn’t tell what he’d prefer. Haunting words he couldn’t (or wouldn’t) confirm on a page or the empty nothing in his brain he was stuck with. He had no pets with him, no map on his body, no compass. There were no landmarks nearby, no nether portals, no cobblestone pillars, no abandoned houses. Just an endless plane of white, white, white. It was okay. He was getting concerningly good at finding his way during times like this. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The wind howled as he walked, its icy hands grabbing on to his skin through his thin, soaked suit and not letting go. He’d begun shivering a while ago. Ten minutes? Twenty? An hour? It was hard to keep track of the passing time, when all he had was a faulty brain and a sun covered up my snow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>It would be when he stopped shivering that he should be concerned anyway. He knew that. So he trudged on, ignoring the chaffing of his soaked suit on his fragile skin. Ignoring the whistling wind that sounded too much like voices. Ignored the feeling he always felt when he woke up like this, that he was merely a passenger in this body, a sideshow to the main attraction. That one day he would go to sleep, and  wouldn’t ever wake up as himself again. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’d always prefer the vast white to that. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He trudged on through the snow for what felt like hours, but could have been minutes, his only measure of time being his own unsteady breathing and chattering of his teeth routinely interrupting them. Finally he saw the signs of life he was looking for. Smoke curling in the air from a far off chimney. The howling of dogs and the whinneys of horses. The sight of dark wood contrasting the blinding snow sent a grin across his face. He ran (more stumbled) towards his house, towards his pets, towards warmth and dry clothes and healing potions for the burns itching their way across his body. Until he stopped another blob of color against the snow. He stopped</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His mind screamed at him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What was it? Another disc? Another trick? Another mocking gift from his own mind?</span>
  </em>
  <span> As he stepped forward, cautious and wary, he squinted his eyes as the shape got clearer. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Flowers. Someone had given him flowers. A colorful arrangement, maybe not the most coherent, but somehow lovely all the same. Two more bouquets sat nearby, tucked into the corner of his door, protected from the elements and the wandering eye. He was still cautious as he crept up and knelt down to pick them up. A flash of white, a piece of paper, attached caught his eye first. He grabbed it, alertness in every motion as the image of another paper, of two dots and a curve flashed in his mind. This had none of that. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Ranboo,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hello big man! Happy Valentine’s Day! Don’t worry if you forgot about it, you gave me a card and a really nice dirt block last week. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t recall it. It sounded like him. Was it? Or was it the other, the one who listened to Dream? He didn’t know. He hopes he just forgot. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Anyways, you asked me to remind you about that so you wouldn’t freak out about forgetting and being a bad friend. </span>
  </em>
  <strike>
    <em>
      <span>I don’t think you could ever be a bad friend Ranboo. </span>
    </em>
  </strike>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I got you these flowers (Pretty poggers of me innit?), as a bit of a thank you. No need to get all sappy on me, don’t lose your Big Man status. (Not that you could, fucking giant). It's a thank you, for sticking up for me, for visiting me, for being there. And listen. I want you to know something else. I’m not upset that you chose to stay with Phil and Techno. I understand, it's quite appealing. </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <strike>I would have chosen them too if they wanted me.</strike>
    </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>So don’t freak out. You’re still my friend big man, you can’t get rid of me that easily.  I also have a little favor to ask. The other two bouquets, can you drop them off at Techno’s house for me? I would really appreciate it. I would have done it myself, but I was in a rush.</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span> T<strike>echno would have killed me if he saw me near his house</strike></span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Thanks big man. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Signed,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Tommy</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ranboo smiled, carefully folding the note and putting in the driest pocket he had. He didn’t want to forget this. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He ran inside, placing the flowers in a vase (he couldn’t recall when he got it). He took a moment, not very long, to look at them and appreciate their beauty. Wild in colors and shapes and sizes, all hand picked for him. He wondered if Techno had a book on flower language he could borrow. He stared, just for a moment, before heading back outside. He didn’t even bother to change out of his wet clothes. He had a mission to do. He couldn’t forget this, not when Tommy asked him to. He said he was a good friend, and he would strive to live up to that. He grabbed the other two arrangements gently in his hands and strood across the way to Technos house. He placed them gently on the stoop, under the overhang to protect from falling snow. He knocked on the door, quick and uncertain before darting away, as fast as he could. Faster than he thought he could. He disappeared back into his house as the sound of another door being opened reached his ears. He smiled, he did it. He hoped they liked the flowers. He sure liked his. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Daisy- purity and innocence</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Delphinium-big-heartedness, fun, levity</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Forget-me-nots-good memories and remembrance</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Peony- compassion and bashfulness</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Queen Anne's Lace- complexity</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Green roses-best wishes (for a new life, recovery and good health)</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Wallflower-Faithfulness in adversity</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Techno stared down at the flowers on his porch. No one was in sight to deliver them. The only sign of who they came from being a slip of paper on each. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>To: </span>
  </em>
  <strike>
    <em>
      <span>THE BLADE  </span>
    </em>
  </strike>
  <em>
    <span>Technoblade</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>To: </span>
  </em>
  <strike>
    <em>
      <span>Dad </span>
    </em>
  </strike>
  <em>
    <span>Philza </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Written in familiar hand-writing, spikey and hurried and full of life. He’d grown familiar with it, scrawls in the dim lighting of Pogtopia, signs on the walls of his basement. Tommy. Tommy had sent them flowers. He couldn’t guess why. Nevertheless, he picked them up and brought them inside. Colorful and eccentric, they clashed with every single decoration in his house. He didn’t mind much. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He looked at the arrangements, at the carefully picked flowers. The colors may have clashed but Techno wasn’t naive enough to believe he didn’t spend hours choosing what belonged. Tommy didn’t half ass things he cared about. </span>
  <strike>
    <em>
      <span>Since when did he care about him? </span>
    </em>
  </strike>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He placed the two bouquets in water. He looked at them, scrutinizing every petal, every leaf, every stem. He knew he had a book on flower language around here somewhere. He didn’t know if he wanted to know what message Tommy wanted to send to him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He got the book out anyway. He had to know. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Techno: </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Snapdragon flowers represent strength and graciousness. If they are given negatively they can mean presumption and deception.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Iris- Eloquence</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Anemone-If this flower is given in a negative matter it stands for fading hope and being forsaken.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Amaryllis-Pride</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Iris- A message</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Violet- Loyalty</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Valerian- Readiness</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Phil: </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Abatina-Fickleness</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Anemone- Forsaken, Sickness</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Apple Blossom- preference</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Borage- bluntness</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Yellow Carnation-disappointment, rejection</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Chrysanthemum, yellow-Slighted Love</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Daffodil-Unequalled Love</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Yellow Hyacinth- Jealousy</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Lavender-Distrust</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---------------------</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>+1</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sun was burning high in the sky by the time Tommy finished his mission. Or almost finished. He had one stop left one more bouquet to deliver. He’d dropped off the rest, had lessened his load down to a single bundle of flowers, but he felt like he was carrying more weight than ever. The walk from the Arctic Commune to the main SMP was long but Tommy didn’t mind much. The air was cold, even through his thick coat, but he rather enjoyed it. He’d gotten used to the cold in the past few months. At least his insides felt warm these days. He’d deal with snow and wind for as long as he had to if it meant his heart never felt cold again. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The snow slowly turned to muddy ground, then green grass as he walked throughout the server. Past SnowChester, past the crater of his old home, past the rebuilt community house. Past memories, good and bad, on his way to a place filled with them. He walked into the woods, a path so achingly familiar, he could close his eyes and find his way just as easily. The path was long and winding. He could feel the phantom rush of wind, of running through these woods. Of fear in his veins, of arrows racing past, of blood and tears and hot anger warring with despair. He shoved it back down. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He wasn’t here to remember that. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He reached the dirt door that marked his old home. </span>
  <strike>
    <em>
      <span>He had a lot of old homes, huh?</span>
    </em>
  </strike>
  <em>
    <span> </span>
  </em>
  <span>Whoever wandered through here last hadn’t bothered to block up the door. It would have felt like sacrilege, if there weren't worse crimes committed on the daily. If sacred wasn’t just more than a word thrown around, tossed in the air with no care to see where it landed. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This place wasn’t sacred. Wasn’t holy. It was cold and hollow and empty. It was a hall of memories, of blood stains, of screams and shouts and madness. It was still a home. It was both. It was warm and cold. It was nice and horrible. It was full of life and empty of anything. It was a place of contradictions, and really, what place wasn’t?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It reminded him of Wilbur. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe that's why he set up his grave here. A little memorial to his brother, gone in all the ways that matter. Gone before he stepped foot in these halls. Broken and tired, angry and frightened. Tommy understood far too well. He’d been angry at him for a long time, but now all he felt was tired. All he wanted was a hug, to bury his face in his brother's chest. To feel his hand comb through his hair, to rock him back and forth like he did when he was a kid. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He was still a kid. He didn’t feel like it anymore</span>
  </em>
  <span>. When he’d heard him, those few weeks ago, his words floating in the wind, tired but real, snarky but earnest, something in him had soothed. Had healed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m proud of you Tommy”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There was no grave for Wilbur anywhere. Only a failed resurrection site, empty and useless. There was nobody for him to have buried, lost to time. Maybe buried in the rubble of his own design, maybe decomposing in a fresh layer from Doomsday. Maybe stolen to be torn apart and desecrated like Schlatt, by someone who didn’t want to share. Maybe it was taken by someone else, buried elsewhere or preserved for some foolish attempt at resurrection. If it was no one told him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It didn’t really matter. A body did not a grave make. Tommy had buried other things instead. A beanie, old and worn (Tommys artist signature still visible under the grime). A bloody revolutionary coat. A well loved guitar (he’d almost expected to hear Wilbur's voice yelling at him as he placed it in the ground). He’d marked a head stone with simple words, carving them carefully until his eyes burned and his fingers grew stiff. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Wilbur Soot</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Leader, Brother, Father, Friend</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Conductor of Legendary Symphony </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He thought the words were fitting. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t visit often, world too chaotic to spare time down here. But WIlbur deserved to be seen, deserved to be remembered. He didn’t wish to be brought back, so he wouldn’t, but he damn well would remember him. He knew that history had been lost, books burnt and ground destroyed. He knew that people would rather forget, would obfuscate around the topic, around the words “L’Manburg” and “Wilbur”. He couldn’t blame them all. But he also couldn’t do the same. Wilbur wasn’t the best person. He was shitty sometimes, especially near the end. But he was also warm and funny and kind and beautiful. Bright and witty and sharp. He gave the best hugs, and the best speeches. He made the best rabbit stew, and knew the best campfire songs and was </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tommy’s brother</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He’d never forget how he’d hurt him, hurt them all, but he’d also never forget him. He was sick and hurting. That didn’t make him unforgivable. At least not to him. So he’d made this grave, made a place to remember him, even when his hollow ghost had wondered the server, even as talk of rituals were tossed around. The future, full of possibilities, didn’t change the fact that he was gone now. The fact that he was missed now. He’d seen it in the cloak Niki wore. In the grief in Phil’s eyes as he looked through Ghostbur’s form. In the heavy weight on Tubbo's shoulders during the brief time of new peace, before it all fell down worse than before. In the way Techno carefully stores every piece of Blue he was given. In the way Fundy would sit by the water and hum a tune, a lullaby they both knew from childhood. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe it was selfish to make a grave only he knew about. A place for only him to mourn. He didn’t really care. People always told him he was selfish, so what if he was for once? Was that really so bad? It was just being what people thought he was, and he was tired of trying to prove otherwise. He knew what people thought. It was okay. He’d still give them flowers, and smiles, and help when they asked. Maybe he was selfish, he wanted them to love him back. He wanted them to care. He wanted them to look him in the eyes and not lie when they smiled at him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He really just wanted a hug. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He approached the grave he’d made, footsteps echoing off the walls, flowers held in trembling hands. He set them down in front of him before sitting, curling his knees to his chest as he settled in for a long talk. As he placed the flowers down, a weight lifted from his shoulders, a gift that Atlas never got. The flowers seemed to glow in the dim lighting, beautiful and timeless. He knew they’d decay until they were as lifeless as the person they were for, but for now they were alive and lovely. And that was good enough for now. So Tommy sat there, in the dark ravine, in front of his brother's empty grave, the air chilly but his heart warm, and he opened his mouth. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Hello Wilbur. It's been awhile. Happy Valentine’s day, I got you flowers, you better enjoy them you prick…”</span>
  <span></span>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Aloe- Affection and Grief</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Belladonna- Silence</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Gladiolus- Remembrance</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Purple Hyacinth- Sorrow</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Marigold- despair and grief</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Dark Crimson Rose- mourning</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Zinnia- thoughts of absent friends</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>---------------------------------------------------</b>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I spent so long looking at flower meanings for this story haha<br/>This is the longest one-shot i've ever written and i'm pretty proud of it :-)</p>
<p>please kudos and comment if you enjoyed!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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